


Celestial Spaces

by spacemonster



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:30:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonster/pseuds/spacemonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gay wizard science cops in outer space, as requested. More of a romance than a hard-hitting crime story!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Luminary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crookedbones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedbones/gifts).



Oh boy, you are so broke.

You are currently sitting on the floor of your tiny, high-rise apartment, in your underwear with your legs crossed. The electricity’s out, so you’re illuminated only by the pure white light that fills the space outside, filtering in through your porthole windows. There are approximately fifteen blankets draped over you because wow, it sure gets cold when your flat’s heating gets cut off on account of your overdue bills. These all are in your hands now, and each has a corresponding coloured string fastened around one of your fingers: remember to pay up. Remember to not forget that you still owe the gas company. There are too many. With a frustrated huff, you untie them all as fast as you can, bundle them with the letters all stamped with URGENT and DO NOT IGNORE and JADE HARLEY YOU ARE A TERRIBLE PERSON, and you crawl across the floor like a big slug to dump everything in your trashcan. Then you flop down onto your back and look around.

Actually, you don’t even like this apartment. It’s too small – kitchenette, futon, separate room with a toilet and shower. You hate chrome metal, and any surface that isn’t cheap plasticky 3D-printed garbage is nasty and shiny, reflecting scenes from your barren apartment into infinity. Everything is sparse because you don’t have the energy to move your stuff out of your brother John’s basement across the shuttle and up twelve flights of stairs. You have so much cool magical crap, but it ain’t gonna move itself. There’s no elevator, your neighbours are loud and rude, and now there’s no heating or hot water, either. You’ve been meaning to move out for ages, but it looks like you might get evicted before that. Nice. You’d have a little more money if you were more productive at work… your dog, Bec, who is actually on loan to you by the police force, suddenly barks at you. He’s lolling on your bed, a big white puffball.

Oh, jeez. You’re gonna be late now, too.

Reluctantly, you force yourself up, wrapping your blankets around you like a cloak or – no, better, like an evening gown – and stumble across the room. The plastic tiling feels gritty under your feet; you crunch on random crap, such as the dead scattered leaves of houseplants that you don’t have the time to water anymore. You hate the police force – three years of work and things are still not looking up. Into the bathroom you go, leaving the blankets at the door, and you start to shiver immediately. The ambient temperature on the shuttle isn’t actually that bad, but you are a self-confessed baby.

You stand at the counter sink, staring at yourself in the mirror. Ouch. So you grab your hairbrush from the counter and set to the task of forcing ass-length hair into some kind of reasonable arrangement. Every day you see cute girls with tiny hair and you wonder what it might be like. But you’re so indecisive! You are now out of breath from wrestling with your hair – it is huge and dark and monstrous, but at least it’s not tangled. Well, mostly. You smooth it back, grab random sections, and work it into a French braid. You can do this without help because you are amazing. You fasten it, and then drape it over one shoulder, and take a look at yourself.

Enough of your time is wasted staring at yourself in the mirror in your underwear that you know exactly the features of your body by now, but it is still fun. You are a delight: your skin is a dark reddish-brown and you glow bronzed rose at your joints and cheeks; you are short and round with curves and rolls and lumps; you have a perfect pixie face with huge green eyes and an adorable Cupid’s bow smirk. Because of an experimental mishap a few years back, you have big white dog ears and a plush, curled white tail like a Samoyed’s. Bec came out of it unscathed, but you think it’s okay. You still look cute. They can take your utilities but they will never take your vanity!!! Or something. You wash your face quickly in ice-cold water, scruff it on a towel, spray deodorant and perfume, slather moisturiser all over, and then prance out of the bathroom.

It feels like all you ever wear any more is your police uniform, which is kind of boring, but it is pretty cool looking. You managed to strong-arm your boss into letting you wear leggings all the time, and you pull on a pair now. They are black and have neato reflective stripes down the sides. You throw on a simple black undershirt and then your police jacket, which is close-fitting and made of some shiny apparently un-soilable, un-rippable navy material. You pull pink fluffy socks over your frozen feet and shove them into black boots, which you lace, and then deliberately pull your socks up and over so everyone can see exactly what kind of officer you are: the kind that is not taking her job seriously enough. And then, you are out the door, Bec at your heels.

Cantering down the brushed metal staircase you take two steps at a time because you can, and it feels good, and on the sixth floor you stop on the landing to stare out of an enormous circular window, which is edged with neon violet lights. It frames a view of some near planet, which you are orbiting, throwing into sharp relief by a distant star: it looks like the perfect curve of someone’s fingernail, pearl white. Behind, there is blackness, the same velvet dark as behind your eyelids, one infinite blink. But there are stars, hundreds of thousands, probably more, all out there, some long-dead. The thought sends prickles along your spine. You feel like your world is improbable, but not impossible. A miracle.

The glossy automatic doors of your apartment complex slide open and then you step out onto the rush hour street. Your precinct is eclectic and busy, to say the least. Above you, brass-coloured cablecars like little gift boxes creak dangerously on the wire, ferrying people across to the business precinct. Buildings tower around you, all apartment blocks, all dense, hundreds and hundreds of porthole windows, most lit up, many with plants or music spilling out. You’ve never found it oppressive here – everything is lambent and white, and lit up by gas-discharge lamps, and far far above you there is the domed glass sky, and then the endless space beyond.

You and Roxy meet up on the beat. You are standing on a street corner; she is leaning against the post of a halogen lamp that is emitting an orb of white fringed with purple, and she looks fierce and alive. She is tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, but not intimidating at all, even in her police getup (which includes a mini-skirt, because your boss is easily manipulated). Her skin is bright bronze, her hair is perfect bleach blonde with a faded magenta streak that could only not look tacky on her. She paid a pretty price a few months ago to get her eye colour changed to bubblegum pink.

Behind her is a kind of run-down looking little meeting house – the walls are steel plated but there is rust in the joints, and the portholes are mostly cracked.

“What’s up, lil’ lady?” she says, and you shrug.

“Not a lot. Am I late?”

You go to check your wristwatch before realising you left it at home.

“Clients are in there,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder with a thumb. “So, yeah, but whatever. I waited for ya.”

“You’re an angel,” you say, and consider going in for the hug, but you feel kind of awkward around her because of reasons. So you twitch a little instead, but she doesn’t notice – she grins sunnily at you, and then turns and wrenches the door of the meeting house open.

The pair of you step inside, Bec loping in like an excited puppy – it’s warm and cosy, even though it’s ugly outside; there are blown glass baubles, looking like they were repurposed from a Galileo thermometer, bobbing in the air as if blown upwards by a light breeze. They glow incandescent from within, jewel-toned hot liquid that splashes and bubbles up the sides of its container. You love magic. There is a long table set in the middle of the room, white marble, and two girls sitting at it have their faces turned in your direction.

The older-looking one has skin the colour of pencil lead, and thick black hair whipped into a stylish pixie cut. Her horns are curved, one of them is hooked; she is dressed impeccably in black and red fabrics that hang loosely from her ample frame. Roxy appears to be transfixed by the other girl, who is wearing a green tuxedo and red bowtie. She has paler grey skin and is a little skinnier, and has a cloud of cropped white hair and long, twisted horns. Now you also can’t stop staring.

“She’s so cute,” Roxy murmurs to you under your breath, and you nod, totally consumed.

“You are the police officers we requested?” the lady in black and red says.

“Sure are,” Roxy says, and the pair of you sit across the table from them.

“I am Kanaya, and this is my associate.”

“Calliope,” says the cute girl, which delights you because it is a fittingly adorable name.

“Great! Nice to meet you,” you say, and then Kanaya clears her throat a little, covering her mouth with her delicate, perfectly manicured hand.

“We seek help with a… delicate situation,” Kanaya says, interlacing her fingers. “Intercommunity tension is heightening.”

From the magic lanterns, you assume she’s talking about the Empirical Erudites. Wow, your boss would kill the pair of you if they found out that you were dealing with gangs now. Roxy picked up this case – she told you she found it at work.

“You’re from the Wicked Warlocks? Roxy… _what_.”

“I told the boss it was a peacekeeping mission,” Roxy says, shrugging, turning her palms up. You feel like giving up with her sometimes. Very briefly.

“Those degenerate _scientists_ have stolen a – a sensitive article,” Kanaya says, her temples visibly throbbing.

“I am to be married tomorrow,” Calliope says, and you coo appreciatively before you can stop yourself. “However, the ring is stolen!”

“No!” Roxy says, and you re-arrange your face so that you look pained. Bec whines.

“She is to be wed to one of – one of them,” Kanaya says.

“Her name is Aradia,” Calliope interjects, kindly.

“Putting my prejudice aside has not been easy,” Kanaya says, her eyes narrowing. “Be that as it may, I will not have crimes committed against us.”

“They don’t know what they’re doing!” Calliope sighs. “They’ll probably just _give_ the ring to Aradia, and she’ll sell it –”

“And that would be farcical,” Kanaya cut in, and Roxy nodded, looking very involved, eyes alight.

“Yes!” she says.

“The ring was an heirloom. I was so excited to give it to her,” Calliope says, and then buries her face in her hands. You ache for her.

“This is sad and stuff,” you say, and then sigh. You can’t afford to get in trouble with your boss; you can barely pay the bills as it is. “But… you guys are gang members. You make trouble for us every other day…”

“Yes, I predicted you might raise that issue,” Kanaya says, fixing you with a stare that puts you in mind of a cat ready to kill an irritating bird. You would ask her how she gets her eyeliner so perfect, but maybe not right now. “It seems I must confess, then. Ms. Lalonde, you should know I am instrumental to your daughter’s happiness.”

A few moments pass, with Roxy looking totally disaffected. You know Roxy has a daughter who works for the government or something. She is the light of Roxy’s life, as far as you’re aware, but it seems like she has some secrets.

“What?” Roxy eventually says.

“Rose and I have been involved for some time,” Kanaya says. “I expect she concealed this from you for fear you might disapprove.”

“Wait, involved? Like, _involved?_ What have you been doing to my baby?” Roxy says, her cheeks coming up in pink. 

“Nothing untoward,” Kanaya says quickly, holding up her hands, and now she is also flushing bottle green. “We have merely been seeing each other.”

“Right. Well! I guess we better get your ring back, then,” Roxy resolves.

“We are definitely going to get it back,” you agree, looking at Calliope again, who is sweet and shy and quiet.

“Definitely.”

After a set of slightly awkward goodbyes, you and Roxy are on the street again, headed to Rose’s office. Now that you’re alone, Roxy is seething, her hands balled into fists, her cheeks bright pink, wearing a stubborn pout. Trams rattle past at high speeds, buffeting you both with wind, streaking electric blue through the narrow streets. You can hear Roxy complaining over the static sing of the tracks and the overhead wires, which are netted and tangled. Washing lines draped between apartment blocks flutter only a few feet higher.

“She never tells me anything!” Roxy says, throwing her hands up.

“At least she’s happy,” you try, and Roxy grimaces. Oblivious, Bec is wagging his tail so hard that it’s lashing against your calves.

“I didn’t even know she was interested in romance,” she despairs, her eyes getting big and wet. You go to offer her a tissue, then realise you don’t even have any. She opens her fist and reveals that she’s already holding one. You don’t understand how her magic works – conjuration, evocation. Making something from nothing. She dabs at the corners of her eyes.

“You’ll feel better when you talk to her about it,” you say, in as soft a tone of voice as you can. The pair of you are standing at the door of the council offices. “She probably just didn’t want to disappoint you.”

She huffs, and then the automatic doors slide open. The usher wherein looks very confused at the pair of you: Roxy, weeping and limp and over-dramatic, and you, sunny as ever.

“We’re with the police, here to see Rose Lalonde,” you say.

The usher makes you leave Bec outside, tied to a post – the dog takes this as no great indignity. You are led onto the elevator.

It’s magic here – literally. You are standing on a circular marble pad set in the floor, which is intricately carved like a wax stamp. The usher clears their throat and suddenly you feel the space created between the three of you and the ground, accompanied by a flare of hot violet light. You love it, but Roxy seems to be feeling it in her stomach; she looks at you out of the corner of her eye and frowns deeply. You suppress your giggle and look down as your view of the bright, elaborate entrance hall zooms out. Around you, the walls flick by, ancient bookcases from the old world, remnants of old cultures, all irradiated by wall sconces that burn endlessly, forever. You get the feeling that this place is alive, and that none of this is history. It breathes.

The lift pad stops in a hall on the fifteenth floor, and the usher steps off smoothly. Clutching her stomach, Roxy stumbles forward too, and you follow. You notice that your tail is wagging of its own accord. The usher leads you to Rose’s office, raps their knuckles on the door, and when Rose doesn’t answer, the usher holds a keycard up to a pad and the door slides open. The two of you step inside and are left. Roxy immediately dashes across the room and takes a seat at Rose’s desk, in what you presume is Rose’s chair.

Rose’s office is a wide circular room, walls lined with bookshelves, everywhere lit by the same floating glass orbs you’ve already seen today. Every surface is gilt-edged or covered by exquisite lilac cloth.

“Check this out,” Roxy says, and messes with some button on the underside of Rose’s chair so that it bobs up, and further, until you see that it operates by a similar mechanism to the lift. It is a plush velvet thing that levitates. This seems dangerous somehow – Roxy leans back in it and then kicks off from the desk, sending herself spinning.

About four seconds later she falls off, landing square on Rose’s desk, her flailing limbs setting a pile of neatly arranged papers flying all over the office. Behind her, you observe, there is a huge window looking out. The city is beautiful at this height.

The door slides open, and you spin on your heel to get your first ever sight of Roxy’s daughter. They look extremely similar, yet important in different ways: Rose is shorter, rounder, her hair is platinum blonde – she’s wearing a thin black headband – and she’s dressed in office attire, her collar buttoned, her skirt knee-length. Also, she is frowning. Roxy rearranges herself so that she is sitting on the edge of Rose’s desk.

“Mom, what are you doing here?” Rose says, and then she flicks her lavender eyes around the room, gaze settling on piles of paper gone awry. “What have you done?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about your girlfriend?” Roxy says. “I thought I was a cool mom.”

“How did you –” Rose starts, and then Roxy leaps up, crosses the room, and wraps her in a rib-crushing hug (you know, because you’ve been subjected to enough of them).

“I thought you might worry,” Rose wheezes, prising Roxy off of her and holding her by the shoulders at arm’s length. She is smiling – the weary smile of someone who’s had to endure Roxy’s boundless dramaticism for some twenty years. “As she is a gang leader.”

“Well, you know. Can’t judge a book by its cover,” Roxy says. “I trust you to make better decisions than I did, sweetheart.”

Rose’s lips pucker like she wants to say something acerbic, but instead she says, “Thanks, mom.”

Then she looks again at the mess on her floor, and follows this up with: “Now, can I help you with anything else? I have some priceless artefacts you can smash if you would like.”

“Maybe later,” you say. “I’m Jade, by the way. Roxy’s partner in crime. Wait, not that.”

Your second pair of ears flattens against the sides of your head.

“Co-worker. Colleague,” Roxy says, and you nod enthusiastically.

“We’re investigating a theft,” you go on, picking your words more carefully. “Your – uh, Kanaya and a – uh – her friend asked for our assistance. A ring has been stolen.”

Rose nods, and then releases Roxy’s shoulders, crosses the room, leans under her desk and withdraws a dusty-looking orb. She sets it on her now-disorganised desk and wipes the grime from its surface with her fingertips. You and Roxy both tiptoe forwards until you are standing either side of Rose, who is now leaned close over the orb. It looks dark, opaque and glassy, until she rests her palm on it, and it sputters to light from within, bright blue. It reveals itself as a stellar object – you have seen them before, rocks collected from barren planets pummelled by comets. Whether innately magic or enchanted, you know these objects to have great power.

Within the curve of the orb suddenly comes an image: a young lady with a bob of black hair who shifts out of view near-immediately, followed by some subterranean-looking tunnel lit in amber and yellow, and a flash of iridescent bright turquoise, silvery patterns that quiver as though underwater. And then, blackness again.

“You must go… down,” Rose says. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her lips parted a slight as though in pain. “Underneath the city. The bowels of the shuttle... there are tunnels, there is life. The thief… you will find her there.”

“Where exactly?” Roxy says, and Rose throws up her hands angrily.

“My vision is weak. I have no more to tell you,” she says – her eyes flick open, and she turns a knife-sharp look at Roxy.

“Thank you, sweetie,” Roxy says, pecking her daughter on the forehead, and Rose softens.

“We’ll be on our way,” you say, “So you can, uh, tidy, and stuff.”

You both leave swiftly.

“How are we gonna get under the city?” Roxy says, huge eyes gleaming at you as you both step onto the elevator panel.

You just shrug. “I thought it was all sewers and stuff down there.”

She grimaces.

“So, like, a manhole, I guess?” you say, and Roxy whines.

“She better have been telling the truth,” Roxy says.

“Did you raise a liar?” you say, smirking a little, and Roxy just winks at you.

Suddenly, your stomach growls. No breakfast, and it must be past lunch by now. This day has gone on for too long.


	2. Satellite

“How do they do it?” Roxy says, thickly through a mouthful of pumpkin. You both stopped at a noodle place because neither of you liked the idea of going underneath the city on an empty stomach. It’s nice here, decorated mostly in white with a plain colour rug underfoot. The counter you’re sitting at is wood-effect formica, which is kind of comforting. There are paper lanterns strung overhead; all of them are lit from within by abrasive neon, of course, but the papery shells soften the light to gentle jewel tones.

“Do what?” you say, idly dipping your spoon into your soup and letting it drain again. You find it hard to do most things around Roxy, but not because she puts you on edge.

“Like, get food.”

Pausing from where you are mashing sweet potato against the side of your bowl, you look up, and catch her beautiful eyes. She always seems so alive and excited, so happy to be wherever she is no matter what. Neither of you are suited for this job.

“You’ve seen the greenhouses, right?” you say. Beside you, Bec whines, a horrible high-pitched whistle. Roxy feeds him a piece of pumpkin.

“No way they feed all these people just on greenhouse food,” Roxy then says, sounding insistent, very knowledgeable. She’s right, obviously.

“My last job was actually at a food plant,” you say, and she perks up. “It sucked, seriously. But they use magic.”

“No science?”

“Some science. Basically you identify the biochemical composition of different foods. Say a pumpkin. Cell membranes are self-assembling, so there’s a start. You have to synthesise the right proportions of nutrients and whatever – I guess a pumpkin has carotenes mostly… and the flavour compounds are super important,” you enthuse. It could’ve been a good job if you weren’t working on the assembly line. “You can make it taste like – wait, sorry, this is super boring.”

“No way!” Roxy says, looking so genuinely fascinated that you feel better right away. “If I wanna pumpkin I just –”

She squeezes her eyes shut, and the next you look, she’s holding a green acorn squash in her cupped palms.

“Roxy –”

You’re about to say how amazing that is, then you realise.

“Why do you pay for food?”

“Well,” Roxy says. “This thing probably tastes like ass. But it looks good!”

You snort with laughter – hot and sour soup spurts out of your nose and you squawk in mortification, grabbing a napkin and pressing it to your face. Meanwhile, Roxy gets the bill.

* * *

By the time you traipse over to the nearest manhole cover four blocks away, your nose and cheeks are both still burning. You’re standing in the middle of an intersection, but there’s no traffic at this time of day in this part of the shuttle. The pin-straight, shiny-clean streets are empty, and the lights are on in all the office blocks. Bec is trailing figures of eight around you and Roxy as you stand side by side, hands on hips, both staring down and looking a little perturbed.

“I guess we need like, manhole keys,” you say, pointing at the little slots inlaid in the surface of the cover. Roxy nods – two seconds later, she’s holding a pair. “That’ll actually work?”

“Eh, probably,” she says, handing you a key.

You pass it between your hands, a little quizzical, before leaning down and shoving it into the slot. It clicks into place – Roxy copies you, and you both turn anti-clockwise until the cover is loose. Roxy extends her other arm and materialises a crowbar about an inch in front of her hand; she grabs it, jimmies the crowbar under the manhole cover, and levers it with her foot until it lifts.

“You better get out the way,” she wheezes, her eyes popping with effort. You grab Bec by the collar and drag him backwards, just as Roxy heaves and flips the cover. It lands with an impressive clang, and dents the asphalt underneath.

“How heavy was that thing?!” you bawl, and she chuckles, de-materialising the tools with a wave of her hand before wiping a little sweat from her brow.

“Iunno. Hundred pounds?”

“Geez,” you say, and then look down into the manhole. There’s a ladder.

“How’s Bec gonna make it down there?” Roxy says, about the same instant as you, too, realise that may a problem. You’re gonna have to sling him across your shoulders or something. So you bend down, making encouraging little noises to Bec, who looks at you like you’re an asshole. Please, you plead with him silently. Don’t make me look incompetent in front of Roxy.

Not in the mood to be trifled with, you grab the dog around his middle. He barks, once, his legs all kicking out in opposite directions before you haul him over your head, his stomach now resting across the top of your back, his legs draped over either side of your chest.

“Good boy,” you say, and his tail whips hard against your boob. “Ouch! Dude.”

“You sure you can do it?” Roxy says, and you nod insistently. So she heads down the ladder, picking her way down the rungs carefully. You don’t hear her yelp once she’s out of sight, so you assume it’s all clear down there.

Manoeuvring yourself down a slippery ladder in a cramped vertical passage with endless feet of impenetrable darkness behind you and one hand clutching the four ankles of an indolent yet aggressed dog is not easy, so you try not to dwell on it too much. Eventually, you see light, and before long, you join Roxy in the tunnel below. Bec leaps down from your shoulders with a delighted, somewhat strangled bark, and jogs jauntily over to Roxy. Meanwhile, you are huffing and puffing, probably horribly red in the face – not that she’d notice. The lights down here are the ancient, crappy fluorescent kind, so old and dirty that they’re flickering and humming silver and gold – dust and age, and billions of dead insects trapped behind the plastic.

This part of the underground sewer system seems to be disused, because it doesn’t have a rank smell even though there is moisture underfoot. The tunnel arcing around you is circular in cross-section, the walls paved with what looks like greying marble tiling. At regular intervals there are enormous steel bands running the tunnel circumference, presumably to prevent the pressure from crushing them. You try not to think about the ceiling caving in.

“So,” you say. “I guess we just head in a random direction until we find the person we’re looking for?”

“Who, incidentally, we don’t even know?” Roxy says, and you put your hand to your chin, furrow your brow – a mocking thinking face.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, pretending to be super enthused. “This is such a great plan.”

“Only the two greatest cops in the whole city could come up with this,” she says, and then both of your faces twitch, and you burst out laughing. The sound fills the previously empty space, disturbs the still, dead air, and suddenly it seems warm and alive in here.

“Hey, we have, like, a dog,” Roxy says, and you nod.

“Bec, can you smell anybody?” you say, but Bec has been staring intently in one of the two possible directions this entire time. “Sniff ‘em out, boy!”

“Can’t you do that?” Roxy jokes – for half a second you think she’s checking out your butt, but actually she is giggling because your tail is wagging. You roll your eyes.

“I only got the, uh, cosmetic features,” you say, tweaking your dog ears with your finger and thumb. Then you both realise that Bec has trotted off, and is currently just visible as a wagging white tail in the distant, intermittent, shifting dark. “Crap!”

The pair of you shoot off after him.

After you catch up with him, you walk on for a while, laughing and joking like you always do. Roxy is so easy to get on with – brash, and abrasive, but only in affect and not personality. She always listens when you speak even though you’re naturally soft-spoken and usually don’t get on well with anyone. She knows most of what there is to know about you already, but you never feel strained to tell her anything; she’s happy to know that you’re here with her, right now. At least, that’s what you think. Her jokes are so harmless and sweet. And even though she’s a mother, she never babies you, which is so refreshing seeing as your brother does, all the time.

Because you are completely obsessed with Roxy, you don’t even notice the tunnels around you changing – until, suddenly, you do.

“Woah, when did it get all crappy?” you say, stopping to look around. Now, the marble tiles are sparse, revealing the coarse grain of unpainted plaster, stained with seepage in a cascade of unpleasant colours. The lighting has deteriorated: everything is cast in a murky haze of dim beige.

“A while back,” Roxy says, tilting her head. “You didn’t notice? Busy gettin’ lost in my eyes?”

She bats her mascara’d lashes at you, and you snort, waving off this totally one hundred per cent true joke with what you hope is a cool, collected air.

Bec has been pawing at your leg for several minutes – now there is cold wetness seeping through your pant leg.

“What the hell?” you say, looking down to realise that the floor is slicked with water, streaming in rivulets down to something ahead, which just looks like darkness but bigger, somehow – you all creep forwards, suddenly nervous.

Ahead of you, the tunnel widens out – there’s light down there, glowing indigo, softening the edges of the corroded metal around you. Roxy looks unsteady on her feet now; she grabs your hand and you hold it hard. The pair of you keep each other balanced as you head gingerly on, your footfalls splashing a little in what is fast becoming a riverbed. You’ve never seen anything like this before, no running water – you shudder to think where it came from, but there’s still no bad smell here, so you think it’s clean.

“Wow,” Roxy breathes beside you, and you lift your head, and are amazed.

You are now standing on the lip of a shallow slope that leads down into an enormous cavern. Your view is punctured by stalactites that hang jaggedly, and below there is a great expanse of blue-violet light. It puts you in mind of greenhouses stuffed to the fill with lavender, but lavender couldn’t be growing down here. Still clutching your hand for dear life, Roxy leads the way down the slope, which is covered in loose pieces of rubble that shower down as you step on them with a clatter.

As the ground levels off, you spy a figure, standing by the edge of the light, eclipsing it, the edges of their silhouette feathered by the glow. And then the sound becomes clearer, the sound of something lapping, rushing – it’s a lake, the light is bioluminescence you think. You get the feeling you are somewhere secret and reverent; you feel blessed. Roxy is still speechless, until the person at the edge whips on their heel.

“Who are you?” they cry out, and you are briefly consumed by the urge to run, and then remember you are a part of the police force. So you press forwards, forcing your ears not to flatten. Bec whines beside you.

“We’re with the police!” you call back, as threateningly as possible, and as you near the lakeshore, the person comes into focus.

Once you have a clearer view of the scene, you aren’t sure where to even look. The stranger is short and plump, their skin cool taupe, their hair a cute dark bob. That’s all fine, but at their feet, in the waves, there is a mermaid. A literal mermaid, like the ones from the storybooks, reclining in the lapping waters, twisting her tailfins around each other. Her skin is the colour of slate, glistening wet and flushed. She has a mass of black hair, whipped and stuck in all directions, punctuated by two curved, blunt horns. There is a harpoon gun looped around her torso. Webbed ears, long webbed fingers, webbing along her forearms… gills, and of course a broad tail where anybody else’s legs would be, a thick, undulating thing coated in glistening pink scales. She hisses at you, her jaw opening impossibly wide revealing rows and rows of sharp pearly teeth.

“Holy crap,” you and Roxy say at the same time. 

“Hey! Don’t look at her like that,” the stranger says, stamping her foot – it sploshes in the waves. “What are you doing here? Who are you looking for?”

“Can we ask your name?”

“Jane Crocker,” she says, folding her arms.

“Right. We’re looking for a stolen ring,” you say, giving the game away instantly, but you’re not really on top form right now – obviously.

“Too late, ladies!” comes a shrill voice from the surf, and the mermaid is twisting in the foam, holding up one webbed hand – she’s pinching the ring between thumb and forefinger. It’s a simple gold band with an inlaid ruby. Beautiful. “If you want it back, you can trade me!”

Before you can ask what she wants, she has turned, flopping onto her front with a splash – her huge tail is no help on land, so she hauls herself forward towards deeper water using her thick, muscled arms alone.

“Wait! We can negotiate!” Roxy says, starting forwards as though to grab the mermaid by her tail. Jane flings out her arms and catches Roxy around the middle. Both of them protest loudly, Bec barks in deep concern, and you can’t swim – you can only watch the mermaid as she crawls away, until she’s out deep enough to loosen herself from the lake bottom with a few powerful strokes of her tail. And then, she’s out of sight. Jane relaxes her hold.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Jane says, her eyes big.

“She’s definitely got a, uh, a unique look,” Roxy says, nodding. “What’s she called? Just out of interest.”

“Feferi.” Jane says the name like it’s the name of some ancient revered goddess. Maybe it is.

“Right. Well, I guess we’ll get out of here,” Roxy says.

“Shouldn’t we take Jane in for questioning, or something?” you say, and Roxy shrugs. Jane looks a little irritated that you’re talking about her in plain view in third person, but whatever.

“I don’t wanna have to explain the whole mermaid thing to the boss, you know. Let’s beat it.”

You all clamber back up the slope, leaving Jane sitting alone on the lakeshore. For some reason, you’re not that shaken. You’re more concerned about giving the mermaid lady what she wants so you can fix this whole mess.

“What do you think mermaids like?” you say.

“Fish?” Roxy floats as a terrible suggestion.

“Roxy! She lives in a _lake_! I’m sure she has tons of fish.”

Roxy tilts her head to the side like a confused dog.

“Men?” she tries, and then pouts a little.

“I think Feferi might be spoken for,” you say. “Uh, wait, anyway, we probably shouldn’t sacrifice men.”

“Small price to pay.”

“Roxy!!!” you despair, but you laugh anyway. “We’ll go to the market, alright? Some trader is bound to know.”

“Sure,” Roxy chirps. “Now. How do we get outta here?”

You look around. Darkness in both directions.

“Um… Bec?”

Bec looks at you plaintively, and then whimpers.

It takes you a while to get out of the sewer.


	3. Solar Flares

The market is the best place on the entire shuttle. Every afternoon, like clockwork, the vendors whip the patchwork tarpaulins from their carts and reveal their wares from every corner of the ship, from planets in this solar system and, mystically, beyond – magic, science and fraudulent crap all intersect in this city square. There are flower carts, overflowing with blooms, too large and beautiful to be contained; the scent that rises is intoxicating, of ripe passion fruits and something that evokes lush green jungles that you’ve only seen as pinpoints on the surface of a far-off world. Beautiful, beautiful.

You and Roxy hold hands on account of the masses of people who are browsing this afternoon – it would not do for police officers to get lost in a crowd. Bec stays close, probably whining, but you can’t really hear him above the roar of the conversation and bartering taking place all around. You squeeze between two carts and suddenly see a market stall manned by a lone lady, and she is not entertaining any customers at present. You gesture to Roxy, and she nods, and the pair of you rush over.

This merchant stall is small, but intricate: the wooden posts are wrapped with tiny, elegant lanterns that glow jewel colours apparently on magical energy. There are many shelves, none of them straight, all packed with stuff – mostly coloured rocks, pieces of jewellery and fragments, many, many opals, several shelves devoted entirely to those fake magic eight ball things, baskets of cogs that once belonged to now-defunct instruments… the merchant herself is as eclectic as all this; a tall, broad troll lady, her skin a blueish slate grey, her hair a matted whip of black to her waist. Her eyes are electric, irises popping zinc-blue behind her huge glasses. One of her horns is hooked, the other shaped almost like a pincer.

“Hi there,” you say, and she extends a scarred hand – you shake it.

“What can I do for you ladies?” she says.

“We’re trying to make a deal with a mermaid,” you say.

“Mermaids? Mermaids?!” the merchant yells excitedly, grabbing an eight ball from the shelf, and promptly throwing it on the floor so that it shatters. “Mermaids are so great!”

“Uh,” you say.

“What a freaky gal!” Roxy says, and then yelps as you stamp on her foot.

“Listen, ma’m,” you say, just brushing over the whole eight ball thing. “We need something to, uh…”

“Seduce.”

“Yeah! Seduce. Wait, no!!” you say, facepalming.

“We need to propose to a mermaid,” Roxy deadpans, and you throw your head back as though the heavens might be able to deliver you from this hot mess.

“All right,” the merchant says. She has smashed another eight ball during the course of this conversation.

While she busies herself looking through her crooked shelves stuffed with knick-knacks and who-even-knows-what, you lean over her little stand for a closer look. The ground behind it is littered with crystalline dust and curved, dark glassy fragments. You wonder if she has a dustpan and brush secreted back there somewhere.

Well, this still isn’t the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen.

“Noooooooo!” the peculiar merchant suddenly shrieks, and you and Roxy jump backwards. “It’s gone!”

“What’s gone?” you say, hand over your heart.

“I had a ring – the perfect ring – it’s gone!”

She thrusts a note into your face. It’s written in crimson scrawl:

I have taken your ring! Haha!  
I hope that this inconveniences you ~~gr8ly~~ greatly.

Signed,  
Aradia Megido.

“Seriously?” you say, but beside you, Roxy is nodding intently.

“If you can find it, you can keep it,” the merchant says, wringing her hands. Her eyes flick from your face to her shelf of eight balls, three times. And then she grabs one and flings it on the floor with a glittery sound of fragments scattering.

“Listen, are you okay?” you ask her. “We’ll find the ring. And… we’ll try and make sure nobody steals from you again, okay?”

The merchant is now braiding a thin strand of her hair.

“Bye-bye!” Roxy says cheerfully, pocketing Aradia’s note. You both turn to walk away; Bec whines plaintively to remind you both that he’s still there.

You wend your way through the market for a while – Roxy stops every five seconds to check out a cool piece of rock or a thread bracelet, which you don’t really mind. You too are repeatedly distracted by mathematical and alchemical instruments – beautiful copper alembics, antiques from who-knew-when; shabby sets of future-telling coins and cards; a beautiful book charting the constellations of the zodiac from your shuttle’s ancient, long-abandoned home solar system.

And yet, the case won’t leave you.

“So… like a week before her own wedding, Aradia stole a ring from a merchant?” you say, and Roxy drops the necklace she is looking at to put her hands on her hips. She is now staring very intently into space.

She doesn’t say anything, so you carry on soliloquising, for your own benefit apparently. 

“That doesn’t seem to make any sense. This is very suspicious. We should probably find Aradia and ask her! But how do you track down a gang leader…?”

“We’ll go back to the station. Find some evidence on her. Clothes or something,” Roxy suddenly says, and you nod. “Then Bec can sniff her out.”

“Right!” you beam. “You genius.”

She winks at you. “I know. Anyway, can we call it a day for now? I’m pooped.”

“Uh, yeah,” you say, grinning a little feebly. You’ve been out of steam since the second you woke up, but you don’t like to admit that.

“You wanna come over?” she says. “Like, a sleepover.”

Your heart rockets into your throat. Yes. Yes, a million times yes. But instead, you croak, “Sure!”

This is a feeble attempt to sound like a normal person, but Roxy doesn’t seem to notice – she just smiles at you, warm and kind, like she always does whenever you feel like you just horrifically embarrassed yourself. You think she is maybe an angel or something.

“All right!” she says. “You can come over whenever. I’ll make dinner.”

“Great! Thank you so much,” you gush, and then the pair of you part. Bec traipses after you.

* * *

You run back to your apartment to pick up a few things – not like you have anything. You crash through the door, toss Bec a couple of dog treats that are lying on the kitchen counter, and look around urgently. You need to change: your boots and leggings are still damp with sewer water. Throwing your closet door open you realise half your clothes are still packed up at John’s house, because you so rarely go out and see anyone anymore. Quick as you can, you throw your wet work stuff into the laundry basket and change into tights – this takes some time because your legs are clammy wet and tights are a struggle anyway – you grab a long black skirt, and a loose green crop top. You pull on white legwarmers as well and shove a ratty pair of sneakers on your feet. Some people on the shuttle dress super modern, but you kind of like the older fashions still.

You feel incredibly stressed for some reason. Roxy told you to come over “whenever”. You find your backpack out from where it got kicked under your bed and covered in dust and spiders – ugh – then stuff clean underwear and a clean set of work stuff into it. You then hunt for your pajamas, which you don’t ever wear when you sleep alone but you feel like sleeping naked at Roxy’s might be kind of weird. Bec has jumped up onto the bed and is watching you with his impossibly large, plaintive eyes.

“Okay fine,” you huff, pummelling your pj’s until there’s enough room to put a couple cans of dog food into your bag too. “But you had better be on your best behaviour, pal.”

He doesn’t make a fuss when you clip the leash to his collar, so you think maybe he decided to get over himself for now. You briefly wonder when you will stop intensely personifying your dog who isn’t even really your dog.

“Hey, if I quit the police, would they take you away?” you say to him, and obviously he doesn’t speak back, but for a second you think you can imagine his black lips turned in a frown. He pushes his cute nose against your thigh. “You’re a terrible police dog anyway. Maybe we could both quit.”

You feed him another treat, because he may infuriate the crap out of you, but he was the best – only – buddy you had until you were partnered with Roxy.

The two of you slip out of your apartment and down the many stairs, only to find that outside it’s raining.

“Augh!” you express. You don’t even have an umbrella. You understand the function of artificial rain and whatever – actually you worked on the weather generating system in college – but it’s annoying. You look up to see the big swathes of water vapour, this shuttle’s fake atmosphere, butting against the glass arcing high overhead.

At least the rain emptied the streets, you guess, as you wrap Bec’s leash around your fist and drag him down the road. The cablecars overhead hang silent and empty, now, the rain beading and dripping on their glossy surfaces. Light bleeds in watery lines down the pavements and roads, all orange and purple, and it hurts your eyes to look. Evening is coming on; the lights on the shuttle automatically adjust to keep everybody’s circadian rhythms functional, and now around six p.m. they are set to orangey red, so that every building and windowpane is ringed with a pop of bright amber. You spend a lot of your time trying to look beyond the shuttle, but actually, there is something beautiful here, too. Something beautiful about your tenuous existence, floating in space, endlessly, and on. A ball of light, a speck of dust.

You are too introspective: before you know it, you’re outside Roxy’s apartment.

“Jade! You’re all wet,” she laments, circling your shoulders and strong-arming you inside. Bec promptly shakes himself, spraying rainwater all over Roxy’s carpet. She giggles.

“It smells amazing in here,” you say, suddenly noticing your hunger pangs. Roxy always feeds you like you’re a royal, though.

“I made baked ziti,” she says, and you could pretty much marry her right there and then.

After dinner, you and Roxy sit on the sofa in her living room, underneath a blanket. You have a bowl of ice cream and chocolate coated pomegranate seeds. The television is on, but you’re not really paying attention – instead you’re repeatedly looking around Roxy’s living room, amazed. You’ve been here before, but every time, you’re amazed by how much it feels like someone so beautiful belongs here. It’s not sparse or clinical in the way that so much of modern design is – you think that’s because no surface is white, or metal. Everything is beechwood effect, which doesn’t come cheaply, and there are pastel coloured rugs and doilies everywhere. On her coffee table is a picture of you both on the day that you officially became partners, next to a photo of her holding Rose as a baby.

You rest your head on her shoulder, sucking on your ice cream spoon.

“Your apartment is so cute,” you say, rehashing the same thing you say every single time you come over.

“Aw, thanks,” she says. “It feels kinda empty when no-one’s here.”

You know that Rose only moved out a year or so ago. You can’t even imagine what that would be like. Crunching on pomegranate seeds for a bit, you don’t say anything, instead mulling over the events of the day. You both are suddenly responsible for a wedding… it’s pretty intense.

“Do you ever think about, you know… marriage, or whatever?” you suddenly ask, even though it’s pretty rude. You have wondered this about her since you met her.

“Oh,” Roxy says, and then shrugs. “Lil’ Rosie’s mom – other mom… she gave me Rose and left, so I guess I gave up after that. I kinda realised Rosie was all I needed.”

“You’re so sweet, Roxy,” you say, and then falter, sucking a pomegranate seed. “I think you’re the nicest person I know.”

“Nah.”

“No, really.”

“Stop it… trying to get an ole granny on your side…” Roxy says, and then tuts. She steals your spoon and takes a little ice cream out of your bowl.

“You’re not old!” you insist. “You’re thirty-four! You’re only six years older than me.”

Once you catch yourself saying this, you blush to the tips of your little doggy ears. Why do you always sound like you’re trying to justify your massive crush on Roxy? Which, incidentally, you had steadfastly been trying to ignore until just about now. UH OH.

Peacefully oblivious to the ground-shaking revelations taking place in your head, Roxy goes on.

“And I got a kid,” she says. “That ages you. And, you know. I’ve been through some stuff. Alcoholism. Transitioning…”

“You turned your life around,” you manage to say. And then you think, screw it. “You’re amazing.”

You forget about the secrets of Roxy’s past often, even though you know them all, know her pain. Not quite estranged but on pretty uncomfortable terms with her parents, who are trying their best, but still call her by her birth name too often. You know she hasn’t spoken to Rose’s other mom in twenty years – amazing how easy it is to lose someone on a shuttle not even a quarter the size of most planets. Raising a child alone and barely scraping by, she drank a lot, which – you heard – was totally fine, until it suddenly wasn’t fine anymore. But she managed to save herself, which you think is a triumph for her (and, secretly, you). She seems so happy now – stealing your ice cream, constantly foiling your miserable side. You hope she is. Heaven knows you have your demons too: depression knocked you out for years and you’re still here, doing a job that you hate. The whole cycle would’ve trapped you again, probably, if you never met Roxy.

“ _You’re_ amazing,” Roxy suddenly says, and you turn probably only a more startling shade of magenta. “Half dog. Half angel.”

Twenty eight, thirty four. There’s a girl on this spaceship in love with a mermaid. Lesbian Romeo and Juliet is unfolding right in front of you, wizards and alchemists. Strange women with stranger cue ball habits, fake notes and secrets. Weirder things have happened, you suddenly realise. It doesn’t make you any less terrified. You have always loved women, and you have always floundered in the dating scene. So it was, so it always will be.


	4. Perigee

_Perigee_ , the point nearest a planet reached by an object orbiting it; at this distance the moon is intoxicatingly close,  
close enough to touch, greater and more impossibly beautiful than anyone could ever imagine.

When you wake up, the cool blue of an artificial dawn is bleeding in through the window of Roxy’s living room. There is a hazy look to the room this early; the light is watery and dim. You are tucked up on the sofa, shrouded in blankets with multiple soft pillows under your face. Roxy is elsewhere, presumably in her own bedroom, and judging from the quiet, she has yet to wake. At the foot of the sofa, Bec is snoring and twitching in his sleep. Your friend.

“Good morning, doggy,” you tell him, and he snorts a little in response. 

As you push your blankets aside, the chill of the room hits you, and goosebumps streak up your arms and legs. Nasty. But for some reason, this morning you don’t mind so much. You pad across the room, rubbing your sleepy eyes, and root around in your backpack for your work stuff. You get changed as quickly and quietly as possible, and then Roxy walks in, about four seconds after you’re decent. You breathe a miniscule sigh of relief. She, meanwhile, is wearing sweatpants and a vest that’s riding up so you can see her tummy. Oh no.

“I’ll go make breakfast,” she says sleepily, slowly blinking at you with your slacked jaw and dumbfounded expression.

“S-sure,” you manage to spit out, and as soon as she turns her back you facepalm in agony.

* * *

You both ate breakfast in sleepy silence – occasionally you’d stutter out something and she would nod, or stare at you. Bec wouldn’t stop begging for table scraps so you fed him another can of dog food, and then you and Roxy were out on the job again. You had snuck back into police HQ to rifle through the evidence archives, managed to find something of Aradia’s and let Bec sniff it, and then escaped again having avoided detection by your boss – good.

So now, Bec bounds ahead of you on the streets of a quieter part of the shuttle, leading you right to Aradia. You both splash in the puddles left from last night’s rain – puddles that glow iridescent with traces of oil in the light of the halogen lanterns. You realise that Aradia is supposed to be getting married today. You share this news with Roxy.

“Crap,” Roxy says.

“Yeah.”

“We gotta hurry it up,” Roxy says.

“Yeah!”

The two of you hurry after Bec, who is galloping now, taking long, loping strides. He’s usually lazy, so this is new. Soon, he stops outside of what looks like an abandoned storage facility – a hulking shiny white thing with none of its lights on, and its sliding metal door firmly stuck shut.

“How are we gonna –” Roxy says, but before she can finish you force both of your palms forwards forcefully, curling your fingers. You feel the swell and rush of energy as you twist your hands and a hole is blown suddenly in the centre of the huge door. You know nothing of conjuration. You know only how to blow stuff up, and you’re feeling impatient today.

“Holy smokes!” Roxy says, clapping her hands.

Bec leads the way, leaping through the hole, and you and Roxy struggle over it, too. Inside, the storage facility is more complicated than you thought – there are many winding corridors and endless rows of doors and staircases, but Bec’s nose knows. You run on, your boots clanging on the embossed steel flooring, echoing up and down the long, labyrinthine passages. Aradia must know you’re coming, by now.

Suddenly Bec skids to a halt, presses his nose up against one of the doors, and whines loudly. You grab him by the collar, haul him back, and wave your arm urgently – the door is blown back off its hinges as though by a sudden unstoppable wind.

“What the hell is going on?!” comes a shriek from inside, a little wet and muffled you think – is she crying? You and Roxy start forwards into the room to find, you assume, Aradia; she has jumped out of her seat and is currently standing in front of her desk, glowering at you, her fists clenched.

“Hi there,” Roxy says. “Aradia Megido?”

“How do you know who I am? What are you doing here? Are you the police?!” she rattles off, quick-fire. In her hand she’s clutching a whip that looks to be made of wire rope; electricity is sparking up and down its length, but not harming her.

“We’re the police, but we’re here to help,” Roxy says gently, and you nod.

Aradia looks like the kind of woman you wouldn’t want to cross. She is about as tall as Roxy and well-built – she looks like she could knock you flat in a second. Her hands and arms are thickly scarred; it seems that years of mechanical engineering have taken their toll on her skin. She is wearing all-black, mostly leather, and her toolbelt is stuffed full of things that even you haven’t seen before. She has long, thick, dark hair and is the palest grey, like a distant moon. Her curved horns, like a ram’s, are sickle-sharp. She does not look happy to see you.

“What do you want?” she snaps. “I’m feeling rather stressed right now.”

“Don’t worry,” you say. “We know you’re getting married today – that’s why we’re here.”

“You have Calliope’s ring?” she says, her yellowy wet eyes popping.

“No, but we know where it is! We need your help to get it back,” you say. “Someone in your gang stole it and gave it to, uh, a mermaid. We needed an item to trade it back, but… okay, it’s a long story. Look at this.”

You hand her the note that the merchant gave you yesterday. Aradia glances at it, and then frowns deeply.

“That’s not even my handwriting,” she says, crimson rising in a terrifying flush on her cheeks. “Why would I steal a ring right before my own wedding?!”

“Okay, listen, if you can help us, then your wedding will definitely be able to go ahead, today,” you say, sympathetic as possible. “This must be someone who knows you well enough to copy your handwriting, right?”

“That could be anyone!” Aradia snaps. And then salmon pink tears start streaking down her face. Oh, no. Oh _no_.

“The merchant was – oh, crap,” Roxy says, looking flustered. “Did we even ask her for her name?”

Your eyes widen.

“Uh,” you say.

Aradia starts sobbing harder, and snorting now, too. She buries her face in her hands.

“I can’t believe – incompetent police officers –” she manages, between her fingers, “– it’s my _wedding!!!_ ”

“No! It’s okay,” you say, but your attempts at reassurance are swallowed by Aradia’s wailing. You and Roxy catch each other’s eye. She’s suppressing a grin. You are not. You do not find bridezillas entertaining. It was bad enough when John got married, and that was to another dude.

Although you have to admit, the situation is pretty dramatic.

“It doesn’t matter that we don’t have her name,” you say. “She was a very – uh – uh.”

“Unique,” Roxy supplies, and you nod.

“She’s a very unique individual. You’d know if you knew her,” you say. “She’s a troll. She likes smashing eightballs.”

“Vriska Serket,” Aradia immediately concludes, and then her tears are stymied. “Actually, she and her sister have been feuding for years. They are always stealing from one another. I’m surprised she didn’t know it was Aranea.”

Two sisters sneaking around in the middle of the night to piss each other off, neither of them even ever realising who the real culprit is. This is becoming increasingly farcical.

“Do you know where we can find her?”

“Sure. She owns a bookstore – here, take the address.”

Aradia goes to her desk, scribbles something on a piece of paper, and hands it to you.

“Find the ring. Today. You can’t even begin to imagine how important this is.”

“Don’t you worry!” you twitter. “We will!”

* * *

You both are sprinting so fast that you run straight past Aranea’s bookstore, and have to double back for an entire block, back to where Bec is sitting – right outside the door, barking at you like an angry mom corralling her children.

“Sorry, pup!” you pant, and then push open the door. A bell tinkles.

“Hello?” Roxy calls. “Anybody there?”

“Yes, yes, I’m right here,” the sole occupant of the store grumbles, and appears from behind a shelf of books. In here it is dim-lit and occult, something of distant planets, ancient civilisations; you imagine that these books are from civilisations long since fallen, snatched from the surfaces of planets now barren. Incredible. She speaks again, snapping you from your reverie. “Can I help you?”

“This place is incredible,” you tell her, trying to get her on your side, but she doesn’t look happy. You see now the familial resemblance – she too has slate grey skin, the same huge, popping eyes, and glasses, and the same horns. She is wearing a long-sleeved blue dress with a long since meaningless astrological symbol embroidered upon it. She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear; you think she looks the shy, bookish type, but actually she seems a little abrasive.

“Thank you. You are the police?” she says, staring at your dog. “Come, come.”

You follow her to a little desk, tucked in an alcove at the end of a row of shelves. She takes a seat. There are papers everywhere, books all over the floor, pages ripped and strewn – what looks like a thousand half-baked plans, all never to come to fruition.

“Please,” she says, gesturing to a couple of stools. You and Roxy sit down, and Roxy lays the fake note in Aradia’s ink colour down on the table.

“What do you know about this?” Roxy says, and Bec whines. Aranea picks up the note, holding it with disdain in her fingertips, looking at it down her nose through her glasses.

“You have followed a trail to me,” Aranea says, eventually, setting the note down and smoothing it with her fingers. “What do you think I know?”

“We think you did this,” you say, not in the mood for games. “We think you stole the ring from your sister, just to upset her!”

“And you know what else?” Roxy says, slamming her fist down on the table before snatching it back and rubbing it furiously. “Ouch. You did a bad job of copying Aradia’s handwriting!!! She does the – the O’s like zeroes. Or something. You didn’t even try.”  
“All right!” Aranea snaps, folding her arms. “You caught me. Take it back.”

Well, that was easier than expected. She opens a desk drawer and retrieves the ring, and then drops it into your open palm. It is a simple gold band with three opals inlaid, and two diamonds. You think they are diamonds – you hope they’re not cubic zirconia, and you briefly wonder if mermaids can actually tell.

“Are these real diamonds?” you check, and Aranea nods.

“My sister may look like a hack, but she sells only the finest wares,” Aranea says. “Much like myself.”

You crack a smile at that. You wonder what drove the rift between them.

“Are you going to arrest me?” Aranea says, and you close your fist around the ring.

“You know what? Nah,” Roxy says, and you balk.

“What?!” you try and say, but she already has a finger to your lips.

“Aranea, your sister is sufferin’ without you,” Roxy said. “I saw her break like a hundred eight balls in the five minutes I was talkin’ to her. And you – you’re a mess without her, too, just look around you!”

“A little rude,” Aranea sighs, “But I’ll admit, you have a point.”

“We’re not gonna arrest you. You already arrested yourself, the day you quit talking to your sister.”

“Profound,” you say, furrowing your brow. “Well, kinda.”

“We’re gonna take the ring and go propose to a mermaid.”

“I will visit with Vriska,” Aranea says, bowing her head.

“Yes! Go to her!” Roxy enthuses, her hands balled up into little pink fists. She is so good and wonderful and pure. Like a creampuff.

* * *

Presently, you are knee-deep in an underground lake, getting yelled at from all directions. Jane is standing on the shore berating you, Roxy is yapping in your ear, and Feferi the mermaid has such a vice grip on your wrists that you realise she could drown you if she wanted. Meanwhile, Bec is splashing and barking delightedly. At least somebody is having a good time.

“Did you bring me something nice? Can I see it? It better not be boring,” Feferi says in a singsong voice, like the sound of bubbles rushing.

“Yes!” you snap, “Just let go of me!”

She releases you, but hangs onto your waist to help keep her head above water. You root around in your pocket and grab Vriska’s ring, pinching it between your thumb and forefinger.

“How’s this?” you say, turning it a little so that it catches the light. 

“Oh! That’s so beautiful!” Feferi squeals, tugging Aradia’s ring off of her finger and exchanging it with yours. She shoves it onto her left ring finger and examines it, grinning toothily. “Now get out of here, before I skin you alive!”

“Don’t need to tell us twice,” Roxy says, practically hauling you out of the lake by your waist. Bec lollops after you.

You crawl onto the shore, heavy with lakewater, covered in a thin film of glowing algae. Jane is looming over you, her arms crossed. Once you right yourself, she grabs you by the shoulders.

“Please don’t think I’m weird,” she says, and you look at Roxy, and then you both shrug.

“You can’t help who you fall for, sweetie,” Roxy says, and Jane relaxes a little. “Now, listen, we gotta run.”

“For the wedding? You’re going to attend?”

“Were we actually invited?” you suddenly say, and Roxy snorts.

“Of course we’re invited. Who wouldn’t wanna party with us?”

“Right. Okay, yeah. We’re going to the wedding,” you say.

“Great. I guess I’ll see you later,” Jane says, and then gives you a tiny smile. Just as the question forms in your mind, she adds, “I will be bringing Feferi.”

You don’t bother to ask how that will be physically possible – nothing confuses or surprises you anymore – you just say, “Great.”

* * *

“Roxy! Wait up!” you cry, running as quick as you can to keep up with her, but your wedding outfit is in a trash bag clutched in your fist, and it’s flapping from side to side and seriously slowing you down. Bec is ahead of you, dashing along next to Roxy. Suddenly they both take a left and disappear into an alleyway – you round the corner, and catch up with them behind a dumpster.

“No time. We have to get changed here,” Roxy says, and you nod. The wedding has probably already started. Roxy grabs the hem of her shirt, and suddenly you decide to do something unreal.

“Roxy, wait. Wait.”

“What?” she says, her big eyes shining at you.

“Before you start taking your clothes off in front of me in an alleyway,” you say, and then take a shaky breath. “I gotta tell you something.”

“Well spit it out, sweetheart!” she snaps, brow furrowing, lip jutting in a little pout. “We don’t have the time!!!”

“Okay! I – I –”

Why can’t you ever just approach something like an adult? Why can’t you just _grow up?_

“I think… you’re such a beautiful, good person,” you come out with, and are impressed. “I know you feel like you’ve lived too long but I’m so glad I got to meet you.”

“Jade,” Roxy says, her eyes softening. She looks confused, she looks elated. You feel like you’re floating.

“And, you know, maybe romance is just in the air,” you joke, and she cracks a smile. “But I really… I really like you.”

“Like me or like like me?”

You’re not the only one who still feels like a kid.

“Like like you.”

“Radical,” Roxy says, and then grabs your cheeks and squishes them, which is so alarming you squeak. “Everything’s been buttercups since I met you. You’re the sweetest lady in this solar system. In any solar system!”

“You wanna date?” you say, closing your hands gently around her wrists.

“Sure. Now help me squeeze into this dang dress, cause it ain’t gonna close itself.”

Her dress is a short baby pink affair in floaty chiffon that makes her look like a beautiful cloud. You zip her up – easily, actually – and then she does the corset back of your dress for you. You wore this dress at John’s wedding; it’s mint green, short, with a pleated skirt. Roxy grabs the hairbrush out of your hands and brushes back your hair, careful around your ears. It feels nice and tingly. You asked her to put it up for you, but she decides to leave it loose.

“It’ll just get messed up,” you whine.

“It looks beautiful,” she says, and then giggles. She leans in, and gives you a tiny peck on the lips. Your world is now complete; holding hands, your fingers interlaced, you leave the alley and rush to the wedding as quickly as anyone can in heels and dresses.

When you arrive at the venue – a small public park – Kanaya is waiting at the gates, wringing her hands. She’s wearing black, but is somehow pulling it off and looking cheerful, if harassed.

“Oh my – oh, I have never been more relieved – please tell me you brought the ring,” she says, and you fish it out from its safe place in your bra and press it into her hand. “Thank you. You saved the day. The ceremony is about to start, please –”

You and Roxy hurry through, passing Rose on the way; she is going to retrieve Kanaya for the ceremony, you assume. You pass under some trees, which are perpetually in bloom; the grass underfoot is rich and lush, and you desperately want to take off your heels and plant your bare feet on the soft earth. You will, later. Soon, you and Roxy see a large group of people, clustered in front of a huge, old, oak. You know this tree.

“They grew that from an acorn taken from a tree on the home planet,” you say, reverently, and Roxy stares at you.

“That’s incredible,” she whispers, and you smile. Next to you both, Bec has taken a seat on the ground, and is wagging his tail. The atmosphere is so warm and relaxed even though warring gang members are here – Calliope and Aradia have healed something, here.

You look through the crowd to see Kanaya pushing past people, Rose close behind. She exchanges the ring with Calliope, who is standing beneath the old oak tree. She’s wearing a green velvet tuxedo, her hair whipped back elegantly, and she looks incredibly nervous. Suddenly, you see that Jane and Feferi are here – Feferi is reclining underneath a sprinkler, sipping a cocktail. Nearby, Aranea and Vriska are looking a little awkward but relieved to be together nonetheless. You feel so happy.

The crowd parts; you and Roxy step aside and watch Kanaya lead Aradia down the aisle. Kanaya’s choice of black makes sense now: she does not detract or even interfere with Aradia, who looks angelic. Her hair has been tamed into a long plait; she is wearing a long-sleeved lace wedding dress, something antique, you think, who could even guess how old – she clutches a bouquet of deep red roses in her hands, which pop darkly against the icy white of her dress. She joins Calliope underneath the oak.

You take a sharp breath as the vows are read. Not just the traditional stuff about sickness and health, but beautiful words about reconciliation, about setting differences aside. The way that love can heal. You sob, because you know. They exchange rings, and you are bawling, and suddenly you realise that Roxy is, too.

Roxy flicks her wrist, and artificial cherry blossom showers down from who-knows-where. You watch Aradia and Calliope kiss, your heart swelling, and then beside you, Roxy grabs your hand. She turns to you, and she kisses your lips. Life has been a fairytale since the day you met her.

In the months that follow, you quit your job, but you keep Bec. You open a flowershop like you have always wanted to, only to find demand far outstrips supply – you have more money than you have ever seen. You finally move your crap out of John’s place. He is the only family you have, and when he meets Roxy, he loves her. You and Roxy talk about moving in with each other like it’s an abstract concept at first, and then one day she is on your doorstep, her entire life in tow. You adopt a cat from the shelter together; Bec is scared for a while, but he gets over it. Your new life doesn’t leave you exhausted in the mornings. You and Roxy can afford to pay the bills. It never ceases to amaze you that Roxy is beside you every time you wake in the middle of the night. You spend a lot less time worrying about distant planets and dead stars, and you realise that this could be forever.


End file.
